


A Mockery of Man

by krispyscribbles



Series: Queen [3]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Other, i'm sorry johnny d, it's a bit fucked up but honestly don't overthink it, the rating might go up if it gets a bit serious
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 23:44:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17456534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krispyscribbles/pseuds/krispyscribbles
Summary: Revolting is the flesh of the man of cardinal sin; destroy what the Gods would disapprove of.John Deacon is the Mercury of Modern Man, above the laws of mere morality and kneeling at the feet of the Nameless Lords who claim him as their apprentice.





	1. Greetings from the Gods

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [dead on time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17272889) by [space_goose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/space_goose/pseuds/space_goose). 



> This is a crackfic. Don't overthink it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John favors the heart over the mind.

Humans spoil the flesh they live within through sin. Be it sexual, social, or physical, the flesh of a human being is not pleasant to dine on. A disgusting waste, but the lust that drives the middle class into fooling themselves they are something superior than what they actually are makes their flesh taste bitter and feel plastic. 

That's why John prefers their hearts.

The purity in one's heart is not tainted by their immediate desires; their hopes and dreams remain within the chambers of their hearts, untouched by their impure actions. Most humans are incapable of achieving their hopes and dreams, which leaves their hearts youthful as their flesh ages. John thinks it's oddly poetic when he holds their hearts, still beating and desperately keeping a pitiful waste of biological advancements alive. It’s as though he is letting the most vulnerable parts of their identity into the open air. John likes to think of himself as a saviour, in that sense. The humans he kills are too weak to say that they want the most mundane of things, too absorbed in the materialistic wants to pursue their dreams. Even if he cannot fulfil their wish, at least their beating heart can sing to the wind, letting their hopes dissipate along with their life. It leaves him with the duty of honoring their memories through the culinary arts; not a bite of their heart is left when it falls into John’s hands. 

Their livers, which process whatever carnivorous desires they possessed, is another delicacy. Dense and malleable to plenty of flavors, John enjoys consuming the purifier of the body. It's a pity that they choose to ruin it by consuming alcohol, but John cannot say so without sounding like a hypocrite. After all, it does pair beautifully with the Moet et Chandon he had stolen from one Freddie Mercury. 

For years, John felt secure as he stalked along London's streets, blanketed by his anonymity. They never expected it: his face was deceptively void of darkness, boyish and attractive. He'd lure them promises or ask for a service, judging them on the spot. John strayed to those with no wedding band, who were haughty, generally unpleasant and vulnerable. He'd persevere with his chosen tactic - knocking them out, having sex with them somewhere else, needing an ear after a ‘tragic breakup’. 

He could keep up this façade until the thrill of having power over another life overtook him and he slashed their throats in one fell swoop. It was always satisfying to see them in shock, reach up and grab his shirt as though that could protect them from Death's premature presence. It was somewhat revolting to see them gurgle on their own blood and try to staunch it, creating a bigger mess as their hands slid off their throats and onto the floor. Yet, they looked at their killer as if he would have a change of mind, as if he could stop their arteries pumping blood in a desperate attempt to save their worthless lives. 

John was merely a messenger, a Mercury for the Gods above. He would deliver these undeserving souls to a place where they could serve their true purpose, finally becoming selfless and honest. After his service, he would reap what he sowed, leaving a static image of what he perceived as beauty in his wake. That was his goal, his purpose in life. It brought him satisfaction to honor the Nameless Lords and to eat the purest parts of a human being, no matter how rotten they were.


	2. Origins of a Killer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Deacon has been killing since he was a boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this is just a crackfic. Don't crucify me.

He'd been killing since he was a boy. Birds, fish, Brian's beloved hedgehogs. The odd cat, stray and malnourished, pleading him for a new life in purgatory than modern hell. His mother and father perceived it as John taking care of the body of a soulless creature when he became engrossed in taxidermy - electrical work only furthered his dexterity and how nimble his fingers were. Between eight and seventeen, John amassed over a thousand individual pieces of art. His favorite way to manipulate them was in the form of sleeping. Countless friends - those who were smart enough not to interrogate John - would always comment on how strikingly beautiful they were, even in this post-mortem pose of peace. The same friends would ask him who was his favorite. His favorite was the family dog, Edward. The border collie was curled up, head poking out and eyes shut: a snapshot of a life, suspended for as long as the preservatives would allow. 

While others commented on how touching it was to remember Edward when he was at his most peaceful, John couldn't help but laugh. They loved Edward’s pose as he was an art piece of the quintessential canine. John loved it because it hid the messy slash that he'd blamed on a street fight with a feral dog. 

He never honored their bodies. They were simply inferior to him, so he let their organs rot and fuel the earth from whence they came. However, when he began hunting for bigger fish (well, humans), he knew that they at least deserved to be consumed in memoriam. That meant a whole new ball pit in terms of anatomy and procedures to ensure that he could keep up with the demands of the gods. 

He held off from even attempting to pursue humans until Roger offered him his biology books. He'd finished his degree and, given how much paper he'd built up, was eager to throw all of his research papers and books out out. John snatched it all and took it home, spending the next week pouring through the hundreds of diagrams and trying to process it into a clean procedure that would work universally. As he was teaching himself, he'd take cuts of pork and beef and try to mimic what was in his head onto a suitable canvas. While he was learning his technique and style in all steps, Roger and Freddie feasted on what John whipped up. 

Hundreds of pounds, a decent amount of hours talking to drunk doctors and endless notes went into finding a way of killing that felt comfortable for John, with the latter being destroyed completely. It had taken a few months of balancing his band, his social life, his degree and his side hobby, but John finally felt ready to take his first steps into taking a human life. 

On a chilly Wednesday night, John headed out to the local disco club a couple miles from his house. The rest of his band members had written it off; beyond being a monumental moment in John's history, John genuinely enjoyed going to discos. It was rather off-character, but John did enjoy this disco for its unashamed label. 

Promiscuous disco. 

People grinded on other people, not caring about their relationship status or if they even wanted it in the first place. It would certainly displease the gods, but the skin on skin contact excited John in a way that was not entirely dissimilar to watching the life drain from another person. It stirred a sense of humanity in him when he saw lady approach him, wearing a pair of lacy underwear and a corset. She was obviously quite drunk, given her state of undress, so John locked onto her, hooking an arm over her shoulder. 

“Hello, love! How are you?” She stumbled and giggled, making John ball his fist. 

“I'm great, thank you. How about we dance a little?” John twirled her and she laughed, abrasive and loud. Her cloudy green eyes observed his cool expression, hands reaching to touch his face. 

John didn't care when she mashed her lips with his. She was sloppy, uncoordinated. Nothing, really: that alone displeased him immensely. He doubted that he would even bother learning her name, which was a shame. He would always remember her as his first kill. 

When she let go of his cheeks, John could sense that she thought of herself as scoring lucky. While he wasn't narcissistic, John couldn't help but acknowledge that he wasn't completely horrendous. He had a charm to him and it had her spellbound, green eyes staring into a vortex of colors suspended in a coolness as they danced. They hardly strayed from one another - track after track would play and they'd drift, only for her to collide with him ‘accidentally’. It was as though she was marking herself on him, contaminating him with her claims to his otherwise flawless skin. 

He'd not had a sip of alcohol for the entire night, opting to observe how it affects her. She hadn't told him her name, so John didn't offer his own, but she didn't need to know in the first place. She'd tried to get her mouth on his neck, to claim his flesh with a mark signifying that he was tied down to another person. Every time, he'd hand her a drink and it was like she had suddenly forgotten what she was doing as she gulped down the alcohol. It had gotten to the state where she looked so lost that she probably would be unable to bring John to the bathroom. 

“Wanna get out of here?” John proposed, letting her lean on his shoulder. She nodded against him and he helped her stand up from her barstool, striding to the exit. John had to take deep breaths to control his excitement; though it was quite sloppy to just let them get bloody hammered to their heart's content, he could sense that she would be compliant with an extra nudge. 

The duo staggered to John's car around the corner of the block with little issue. For someone who had taken at least 10 shots since John had met her, she walked quite confidently, indicating that she had experience in being taken home for just a night. The thought sickened John, but that didn't stop him opening her door for her and shutting it swiftly. 

“Are we going to your place?” She stared out of the window, shivering. John shook his head mutely and shimmied his coat off, owing her the courtesy of comfort before he slashed her throat in a seedy motel room. 

She radiated nervous energy. 

“Where are we going?”

“You'll see, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> krispy-posts.tumblr.com


	3. Discover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wasn't found in a good condition.

Louise Karlsson was found dead in Room 511 of Golden Star Hotel at 11:37 am. She was seen stripped of her clothes, bathed post-mortem, and kneeling by the foot of the bed. Her hands were bound together in prayer by the rope of her corset, hands holding a large bouquet of purple hyacinths. So large, in fact, that when she was examined and was transported into a vehicle to the autopsy labs, it wholly masked the gaping hole in her torso. 

Post mortem, she was found to have been killed by a precise swipe to the throat. Her heart and one of her ribs was missing from the body. The liver was removed but reattached. Her estimated time of death was 3:30 am. 

She was 24 years old.


	4. Finding Those Who Give Satisfaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John should know that humans are his equals, but they are just so...inferior with their addictions. He holds this belief until he finds his own band of misfits, learns to tolerate them and even gets close to loving them. Well, as close as a man like John Deacon can get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was put together hastily, I apologize.

John never had a lot of friends when he grew up. It wasn't something to be sad about or mad about - it was simply a fact. Nobody wanted out with Demented Deacon and that's how he liked it. It was only when he was 18 and living alone did he realize the value of friendships for personal gain and public reputation. 

He had gone through his fair share of zany friends; plenty of kids who thought of themselves and disenfranchised and frustrated, kids who lived and breathed for Dungeons and Dragons, kids who were reclusive and spent their time in the library. Hell, kids who snuck at night and drank until the sun came up on weekends. 

John felt like he had finally gathered a group of misfits who could give him an excuse to not be vocal because they were all loudmouthed idiots. Don't get him wrong; John poured whatever emotion he had closest to love into each of them, but they were just a bit stupid. 

Freddie was hot tempered and irrational. His flare ups would be a dramatic visual of his distaste and would always lead to a heaping pile of broken shit on the floor. John had narrowly picked up his and Brian’s guitars before they ended up in a rubbled heap, but Roger’s first legally purchased pair of drumsticks had joined the legion of broken crap in London’s landfills.

That wasn’t to say that Freddie was awful; he was loving and clingy and bathed everyone that he loved with love, attention and materialistic goods. The problem John had with Freddie was that his mood could flip like a switch. John knew that his erratic behavior was a reflection of the stress Freddie submitted to, which made his heart tougher and less valuable to palate. A disappointment, considering how strong it had to be to power his voice. In addition to his indulgent lifestyle, which included and was not limited to copious amounts of cocaine, over-the-counter anxiety medicine, MDMA, ecstasy and plenty of alcohol. If it weren’t for the fact that Freddie was essential to Queen and that he had given him a gold plated scalpel, John would have mercilessly broken Freddie’s neck. 

As far as John was concerned, he was the only person who could stop Freddie going ballistic by hugging him - engulfing him with his limbs would inhibit his movement and, if he needed to, he could easily slam Freddie onto the ground. Once or twice, he had had to lift Freddie and practically throw him onto the couch so his temper would flatten and he’d enter a state of shock and indignance. It was an effective and unquestioned method of preventing the studio being wrecked, but sometimes John wished that Freddie was a little easier to be around. 

If John thought Freddie was difficult, Roger was like teaching time dilation at near light-speed travel to a third grader. He possessed an immense amount of strength for one so small - so much so that John’s senses were practically assaulted when Queen’s first rehearsal rolled around. Roger was a coordinated mess of limbs, flailing and by all means flimsy given his small stature, but John had been blown away by the complete and utter dedication to providing creativity and a foundation for himself, Brian and Freddie to build upon. 

Personality wise, Roger was a demanding force that would swing from happy to petulant to depressed in an unpredictable nonstop swinging motion. When John was feeling particularly dark, he would think about laying Roger on the dining table, limbs bound to the legs, and he would saw through his flesh, his muscle, his fat, his nerves, his bones, to the brain in hopes to understand what was going on in his head. 

It had taken longer to learn how to calm Roger down: John had learned that Roger hated disappointing the others, so he masked it with his showpony habits. By vocalizing his disappointment and letting Roger ponder, John had control over him and could essentially make Roger do anything to earn even a glimpse of his attention. It didn’t mean much, given that Roger had taken up the habit of day drinking. It wasn’t chronic alcoholism (John would be able to tell when Roger’s liver was rotting in his body), but by two in the afternoon Roger would be quite wasted on the cheapest whiskey he could buy. It was rather disgusting, but John found that Roger was charmingly innocent and honest in a way that would be impossible for him to exploit. John learned to treasure that purity, as it was the soul he was searching portrayed on a living model. In fact, when it was the two of them together and Roger was drunk, John felt like he could be his most authentic (if slightly morbid) self. 

Brian was practically John’s polar opposite. He hated the parts of John that weren’t based on music or electrical engineering or Scrabble (all things that John considered unimportant, if he were frank). When John had brought the three of them home to Leicestershire to help him get a few pieces of furniture, Brian had almost passed out when they reached the spare room filled with taxidermied animals. He silently wept for the small family of hedgehogs, protected in a converted fish tank and in a burrow; he shed a few tears for the birds in their faux nests on the shelves, shielded from the growing dust by a glass fixture; he almost bawled when he saw Edward, stroking the fur tearfully as he thought of the value of family dogs and how limited their time was with their lifelong companions.

John honestly wanted to shove a tissue up Brian’s tear duct. But, of course, he patted Brian on the back and reassured him that Edward had been nothing but a good boy before urging him to help dismantle a bookshelf. It had taken a while, given that Brian wanted to know about a lot of the animals in John’s room, but John tested his own patience in order to build his and Brian’s bond. It paid off eventually on a drunken stupor; Brian had lost himself in glass after glass of wine and had ended up tiredly leaning on John, humming a light tune to the chiming winds. 

“I...I trust you with my life, Deaky.” 

Brian took deep breaths, allowing himself to settle next to John. Said man inhaled sharply, before exhaling sharply. Brian had no idea how deeply those words impacted John, and that’s how John liked it. The use of the endearing nickname made the statement that much more cutting than if he had used ‘John’. John didn’t even feel pressured to say anything back because Brian was just a gentle, understanding soul. It spared his life from then on, but sometimes John felt like the Nameless Lords were testing him. 

Brian frequently brought injured animals home and rehabilitated them before returning them. John had no problem with that; he found it one of Brian’s more endearing qualities and took photos of Brian with these animals. He gave them silly names and documented them in order not to forget them; John would print the photos and stick it into the photo album, allowing Brian to explain each and every one to him. John’s personal favorite was Cheerio the Badger, the badger with a massive wound along its abdomen and face. Not only did it remind him of Edward, but Cheerio just struck a chord with him. John continued to help him as the years passed, but the introduction of Tater Tot, the three legged hedgehog, definitely diminished his desire to help Brian for quite a while. 

Brian had found her in the yard area of the studio with a broken part of barbed wire fencing embedded in her left hind leg. He had rushed off to a vet (“To hell with the album!”) and was willing to pay thousands of pounds in order for this tiny little hedgehog. He had bailed on coming back until Tater Tot was well enough to leave alone in his apartment, which infuriated John. Despite the fact that he was a serial killer and occasional cannibal, John enjoyed creating music and found the voice the Gods had robbed from him. Naturally, his anger had transferred to what he believed as the source; the little ball of spikes in a temporary rectangular tub that could hold ten liters of water. 

Brian spent the next few weeks rehabilitating the three-legged fiend, feeding her and sitting with her, reading about time dilation at near-speed of light travel or playing guitar to pass his time. John and Roger would frequently visit him; Roger was more concerned that Brian was actually losing sleep because of Tater Tot, whereas John came to glare at the hedgehog as though he could pierce through her spikes and flesh and rip out her beating heart. John couldn’t afford to start any controversy with Brian, so he simmered in the corner and offered to make Brian tea. He nearly bent the teaspoon in half when he heard Brian coo at a fucking hedgehog.

Two weeks after John and Roger visited Brian and Tater Tot, a human body had been found in central Manchester, shanked and missing his hands. His eyes were viciously ripped out and he was holding his own heart, fingers stained and mouth agape. It had been later labelled as a ‘crime of artistically driven savagery’. 

John was in Cardiff (for the majority of his holiday).


	5. Heart of a Demon, Beating Steadfast as a Heart Should

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He struggled on his own; hair unkempt and eyes bloodshot, vomit on his forest green shirt and a dazed look on his face. 
> 
> John almost felt bad for him.

He should have seen it coming. 

 

With the massive boost in popularity, John Richard Deacon should have predicted that his anonymity wouldn’t last long. People started recognizing him on the streets; strangers would definitely ask for his attention. It made going to his car nearly impossible when he was bombarded by paparazzi eager to capture the most elusive member of Queen off-guard. It brought John a semblance of pleasure to see them walk away with disappointment when he didn’t adhere to their wants or needs. 

 

This boost in Queen’s popularity meant that John was unable to just go to discos or night clubs and pick someone up, but it meant that he could afford a proper killing suit - a protective shield around his clothing that meant that he wouldn’t have to get rid of all of his clothes.It was easy enough to get - a few odd favors to a shady guy was worth the payoff - and paying £50 in cash made it impossible to trace. Given that John lived alone in his own house (a perk from the royalties of Sheer Heart Attack), he could put the kill suit in the nook in the master bedroom’s floorboards he made himself. His gold plated scalpel as well as his other tools stayed in an unassuming medicine box in the same area as the kill suit, untouched as he built a little chamber off of the wine cellar for his...more stubborn sacrifices. 

 

It was well ventilated and an unassuming, easily shut grate was installed in order to make it look like unsuspicious to the passerby. John’s old bed, completely sanitized and leaving not a hint of it being his, was crammed in the corner. Shackles were fused to the metal bed frame and a light was installed but it was otherwise barren. Had it not been placed in a place that looked dank, one would confuse it for a tiny bedroom. John spent a lot of time tweaking it and making sure that the shut-off grate system would work. When a victim would be on the brink of death, they would inevitably make a lot of noise and smell awful; John invested a lot into sound proofing and ventilation, knowing that it would pay off eventually.

 

Not a soul entered that chamber for two years.

 

John hadn’t expected for the British public to enjoy their conundrum of music. Maybe it was his lack in faith in humanity or that he was preoccupied with his other project, but he honestly didn’t notice the boom in Queen’s popularity. It wasn’t until Jim Beach had proposed a nation-wide promotional tour to support  _ A Night at the Opera _ that John realized that he would have to reevaluate his priorities. 

 

What had previously claimed his wholehearted attention was brushed aside as his true livelihood shone through, demanding his care in order to not raise suspicions. It had made him quite irritable, to be honest. He still had plenty of things to change about his house; he had to rip up all of the carpet, redecorate a few rooms to make it look well lived-in and also have his kitchen renovated. However, he couldn’t do go through with his projects unless he was present, in case they went downstairs or into his room and happened to find out about his other passions. 

 

Surprisingly, Roger was also resistant to touring; John honestly expected him to be the most excited, but Roger had ‘other commitments’ in his personal life that made him resistant to touring. It wasn’t until Freddie had scolded the both of them and Brian had almost thrown a mug at John that they both grumpily agreed to do a six month tour in America. A good number of dates were added and they’d have infrequent three day breaks, so John tried to see the less negative aspect to it. 

 

As the others were gearing up for a tour, John felt that it would be fitting to pay Roger a visit. Brian and Freddie would be frantically packing, trying not to forget a single thing in order to make life as comfortable as possible. Miami would be locked up with various hotels and medical staff, and as interesting it is to talk to him about band finances, John would much rather see a member of the band. That left Roger; grumpy, perpetually drunk but incredibly intelligent Roger who would rather chop his own leg off than turn his friends away. As much as John hated their yelling matches and cleaning up after Roger’s tantrums, he felt that it was his responsibility to ensure that Roger was okay. Brian and Freddie could sustain themselves, but Roger was a bit of a loose cannon even at his age. 

 

John slid on a hoodie and hoped to God that it concealed his perm (call him vain, he didn’t care) and got into his car, hoping that he caught Roger on a good note.

 

* * *

 

Well, this was a bit unexpected. 

 

John looked down at the child in Roger’s arms, big blue eyes staring at cool green. Roger looked at his friend, rubbing his eyes, obviously irritable and not even caring that John had found out about his ‘personal commitment’. The newborn closed his big blue eyes and Roger walked inside, leaving the door open for John to come through. 

 

He was half-expecting a woman to greet him warmly and try to charm him, but the soft murmur of a television was the only thing to greet him. John’s heart dropped. He didn’t feel sympathy for Roger  - he had no idea how to feel that way, to be honest - but he certainly felt something when he looked around his unkempt home. 

 

Roger settled on the couch and groaned, blinking incredibly slowly. John sat on the armchair, sneezing when the dust floated up and into his nostrils.

 

“Surprise,” Roger murmured unenthusiastically. “I have a son.” 

 

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

 

“His name is Elias William Taylor,” Roger offered, rubbing his eyes again. John nodded and leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs. Roger held the baby out to John and he accepted without hesitation, somewhat eager to see new life. “His mother left me as soon as he was born. Wanted nothing to do with him, she said. I just couldn’t put him up for adoption, Deaky.” Roger’s voice cracked and he yawned, covering his mouth with a closed fist.

 

Roger was exhausted. 

 

John handed the baby over to Roger, standing up and stretching. 

 

“Get the baby cleaned and in bed. I’ll help you sort yourself out, Rog.” 

John didn’t look back as he sauntered into the kitchen, and thank God he didn’t. Roger was about to cry. 

 

John was always reliable and would take time out of his day in order to help his friends; it seemed especially so with Roger, but he knew when he was needed. It just so happened that Roger needed him a lot, especially now given that he had a newborn son. Sure, John didn’t see his Thursday afternoon being spent cleaning baby bottles, throwing away Chinese takeaway containers and ventilating a dank kitchen, but he couldn’t complain. He wanted to pitch himself as a trustworthy person to Roger up until his inevitable downfall as well as be a guiding light for Roger in order to ensure that he needn’t sacrifice one of his closest friends. 

 

“Look, Deaks,” Roger said, making John jump slightly. Roger let out a slight huff in amusement and John glared at him, but Roger paid no mind to it. “Thanks for helping me. I...I didn’t realize that I needed someone until you came around.” Roger quickly gave John a hug and stepped away, but John just held him closer. He knew how it felt to be overwhelmed - John’s came from particularly loud and rowdy victims - and seeing Roger, cheerful, silly Roger, come down with an abrasive smack in the face by reality made John angry at the Nameless Lords. 

 

_ ‘Why Roger? _ ’ John seethed, hugging Roger a little bit tighter. Roger laughed and swung them around, swaying in a haphazard mockery of dancing. John allowed himself to be dragged around, if it meant that Roger would smile again.

 

* * *

 

John pulled into his driveway with mechanical movements, mind preoccupied with thoughts of Roger. They’d cleaned up the house together, talking idly about life. Well, Roger spent more time talking than John. 

 

Elias was the most talked about topic; Roger had indulged John with the details of Elias’ mother, a budding pathologist who Roger had slept with. She had respected his desire to keep their son, but had otherwise kept her nose out of Roger’s life. When Elias came around, Roger had been listed as the primary caregiver and she had said farewell - that was only two weeks ago. Since then, Roger’s life had flipped around - the drinking had all but dissipated and the promiscuity had shriveled and died when someone much more important needed his attention. 

 

John thought of it as a second chance for Roger; being a father was something he had no clue about, but he did know that it presented a lot of opportunities for reinvention. The influence of a parental figure not only changes the mentality of a developing child, but also that of an otherwise delinquent father (such as Roger). Roger didn’t want Elias to become a bad person, so it required some kind of soul searching. That alone spared him from John’s sharpening blade and the grumbles of the Nameless Lords, who had spent years convincing that Roger wasn’t worthy of life. 

 

The wine had been swirling in its glass for the last five minutes.

 

John gulped it down, silently toasting to one Elias Taylor. 

 

_ I may have just met you, Mr. Elias Taylor, but I promise that no harm will come your way. I am sure of it.  _


End file.
